With or Without You
by iRamble
Summary: One-shot set immediately after The Foundry (S12E3). As Sam and Dean react to what Mary does, Sam realises he needs to set a few things straight. Dean has always looked out for him; now Sam returns the favour.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer**: _All characters appearing in Supernatural are copyright Kripke/CW/WB etc. No infringement of these copyrights is intended. This fanfic is my original work of fiction based on those characters/that universe. No Beta's were harmed during the writing of this fic._

**A/N: **Set S12E3: _The Foundry; _immediately after Mary leaves the bunker.

**A/N:** Thank you to Wiki-Keepers, readers, favouriters and reviewers, it's all genuinely appreciated :-)

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**With or Without You**

She'd left.

She'd simply just… left.

Sam still couldn't quite come to terms with what had just happened, still couldn't really get his head around the what. The _why_.

But it _had_ happened; she'd left.

And now there was an empty silence.

The bunker felt airless. Or he felt breathless. Either way, his chest was tight and heavy with something he could neither name nor dispel.

He'd lain awake that night, the darkness of his room illuminated only with memories from earlier in the day. And the thing that came back to him, the thing that haunted him, was the look on Dean's face.

She'd started saying what she started saying, just as Sam had walked in, and there was a look that Dean had worn that had made Sam's heart drop before he'd even heard a word of what their mother had said. Dean had bit his lip, looked worried, confused, still a little hopeful, but scared all the same, in a way Sam couldn't really remember seeing him look before, because it was Dean and Dean had never really looked scared like that. Not that Sam had ever seen.

Like a lost child.

And then it was gone, replaced by comprehension.

Sam still hadn't cottoned on, but one glance towards Dean told him that he had. Like a bitter little pill hidden in cheap drugstore candy, Dean had already sussed it out before the wrapper had even crinkled. He had too much life experience to not know where this was headed.

Dean, who'd been let down too often by everyone he'd loved. Dean, who'd been disappointed enough times to see it coming.

Dean, who got bruised by the blow before it even landed.

Dean. Who still kept on loving people, letting them in. Believing in them, despite it all.

Only to get hurt again.

Dean had recoiled from her then, and Sam was painfully aware of the feelings radiating from his brother and he'd wanted to reach out to him, not just for his own comfort but to protect Dean in return. But he'd been so numbed by Mary's words himself, that he'd just stood there, woodenly, letting them wash over him, each word, each wave, burying him a little deeper every time.

And then when she was done explaining, even though he'd seen Dean stepping back, incapable of touching her, when her arms had latched around him instead, his muscles simply reacted and he'd hugged her back out of pure mechanics. Had hugged her out of the desire in him to have been hugging his brother instead, his muscles simply acting out that latent need. But it hadn't been her he'd been meaning to embrace, it hadn't been her pain he'd wanted to soothe.

He didn't really know what he felt for her in that moment.

It had been Dean that he'd wanted to shield. To protect.

It had been Dean who's reassurance he'd needed right then.

But he'd simply stood there. Hugged her like he'd forgiven her somehow. And as she left, Dean had disappeared too, and they'd kept their distance from each other after that.

And now, the look Dean had worn blazed in front of Sam's sight as he stared up at the darkened ceiling and he couldn't hide from it.

It made a sick aching knot twist in his gut, and he couldn't make the feeling go away. Couldn't wrench it out.

It hurt him in ways Lucifer never could have.

He tossed and turned most of that night. Sleep wouldn't come, or when it did, it wouldn't settle.

He knew Dean was awake too, somewhere in the bunker, bottle in hand.

It was as though Dean's wakefulness made the bunker tense, like a force of nature that Sam could actually feel in the air, in charged particles and static humming, a build-up of pent up energy until finally he sensed Dean begin to waver. There was that shifting of something, as if Sam could sense his brother's consciousness faltering, flickering like a neon light, and then the restless stillness of him finally descended over the bunker like a heavy velvet shroud.

And it _was_ restless. Sam wouldn't be able to articulate _how_ he knew that exactly, but he just did.

He wove his way through the bunker then, and found Dean on the kitchen floor, half slumped against the cupboards, alcoholic stupor finally having managed to win the battle it had waged against his stubborn consciousness for so long.

"Come on." He said, kneeling down to circle an arm under his brother's shoulder and hefting him up, glad and not for the first time that he was taller of the two. It made this kind of heavy lifting oh so much easier.

Well, easier on the body at least. He wondered sometimes about the emotional stamina of his heart muscles.

Dean was able to take a few raggedy steps to help carry his own weight along, so it wasn't a complete case of Sam literally dragging his ass to bed through the bunker halls.

But it wasn't far off.

And he didn't really mean to throw his brother onto the bed, but Damn! Dean could weigh a tonne somehow. At least he hadn't banged Dean's head into the wall as he'd deposited him. Although, he thought wryly as he lifted his brother's legs onto the bed and then wrestled to get his boots off, it wouldn't be as though Dean would notice a lump on the head in the morning. Not with the hangover he was inevitably going to sport.

He pulled a blanket up over him, noting how awful Dean looked, and couldn't help shaking his head as he wished his brother would discover a better coping mechanism.

He was half turning to leave when Dean spoke.

"Sit me?" He slurred hoarsely, voice hushed low and laced heavy with sleep and alcohol.

"What?" Sam asked, not sure he would get a response or whether it would even be worth indulging his brother's drunken ramblings if he did.

"Isit… me?" Dean repeated, managing to articulate the question a little more clearly, though still half unconscious.

"Is what you?" Sam asked again, still not sure what, if anything, his brother was getting at.

Dean shifted and frowned, but his eyes stayed shut and Sam waited, wavering.

"Everyone leaves." Dean mumbled finally. "Everyone… leaves…. 'Sit 'cause o'me?"

Sam had thought he'd known pain earlier that day, but what he felt in that instant, in that one broken whisper from Dean, destroyed his heart completely.

His eyes smarted.

His breath caught.

"Dean…" His name came out as a breathless whisper and Sam had to swallow twice before he could find his voice. "Dean no. No of course not... Of course not." He squatted down at the head of the bed, hand running through Dean's hair, thumb rubbing across his forehead, not sure if Dean had passed out again. Almost hoping that he had.

But Dean was so immune to alcohol now, and to pain, it would probably take nothing less than a beheading to knock him out.

"I…" He twisted his head away from Sam's touch, grimacing again in his sleep. "Dad left–"

"Come one man." Sam coaxed gently, turning his brother's head back towards him, placing his other palm gently on Dean's cheek, hoping the contact would somehow anchor Dean back to this reality as opposed to the one he was losing him to. "Don't do this."

"Cas left..." Dean continued, but at least stopped squirming away from Sam. "Bobby…. Charlie… My fault."

"No its not."

"You left me t–"

"Stop. Stop, Dean… Stop." Because Sam's heart couldn't bear to hear him say that. "It's not you. OK? It's not. It's… Mom she just… She needs time, that's all. She'll be back."

"N'she's gone too…" Dean continued, as if he couldn't even hear Sam. "Must be me."

"It's not you Dean."

"M'Sorry Sammy."

"It's not your fault."

"… y'never got t'knower … coz'o'me."

"That's not true… and it doesn't matter anyway, okay? It's okay. _We're_ okay. You and me, Dean, just like always. We're gonna be okay."

"An' now she's gone. …M'sorry Sammy… M'sorry."

Sam reached for his brother's hand, squeezed so hard he was sure he'd break Dean's knuckles. But he didn't care even if he did. That pain had to be better than whatever Dean was feeling right then.

"It's not your fault Dean. You hear me? It's never, _never_, been your fault…. And I'm sor–" But the words caught in his throat again and again he had to take a minute. Had to take a deep, shuddering breath to acknowledge his own multiple entries in his brother's misery-pain index. "I'm _so_ sorry Dean. I'm _sorry_. Can you hear me?"

But it seemed his brother had finally, _finally_, succumbed to the vat of alcohol swimming around in his bloodstream.

Sam gritted his teeth, unable to move, ending up finally sat with his back against the wall next to his brother's bed, almost mirroring the position he'd found Dean in earlier, slumped on the kitchen floor. He couldn't account for how long he stayed there. For how long it took his heart to stop trying to hammer its way out from his ribcage, or how much time passed before wave upon seemingly relentless wave of sorrow stopped washing over him. How long it took before he could finally, gingerly, believe he wouldn't break down and cry.

He sat there, eyes now accustomed to the dark so well they could make out the detailed silhouette of his brother's face. The angles sharp and the lines straight. The slight glint of an old childhood scar that had never quite dulled away completely, the hundred strands of fresh stubble showing through, blanketing the contours of his cheeks and chin.

And the circles and hollows of eyes not rested and food not eaten, shadowed even in that dim light.

It left a fragility on Dean's features, exposing something the older hunter kept well-hidden when conscious. It made him look somehow both timeworn and young at the same time; weary and vulnerable. It hurt Sam with feelings he couldn't pin down.

"You've always deserved so much better than what any of us have ever given you." He whispered after a while, knowing that his brother probably couldn't hear him anymore, but hoping that on some level, Dean would sense him at least. "I won't let you get hurt again Dean. I swear…. I… I won't."

Sam hadn't even thought about what he ended up doing. It wasn't planned or premeditated. He hadn't been sat there hashing out a scheme, waiting for Dean's sleep to become deeper. Hadn't thought ahead about how he would fire up the laptop and locate Mary's cell. Hadn't thought about sneaking his way to the garage and driving away silently into the night.

But that's what he did, all the same, like he was on autopilot.

Barely two hours later, just as dawn was breaking through, there he was, outside the motel where her signal had pinged, staring at the door, wondering if she'd found it in her heart to have slept peacefully that night.

It had started raining.

Or had it always been raining, since the moment he'd left the bunker?

For the life of him, he couldn't remember.

He was still so numb, still so deadened, he couldn't tell if the raindrops were freezing cold as they'd cut into his skin on the walk from the car to her door.

His fist on the faded wood announced his arrival and the door opened barely a few seconds later.

So. She hadn't been asleep after all, then. There was some solace from that at least.

That and her eyes; puffy and red, shadowed like she'd been crying.

Good.

He felt bad the instant he thought it, but he couldn't help it. Found himself seeing Dean's face flitting before his memory again and he was talking before he knew it, cutting her off from finishing whatever she'd started saying.

"Look I know you need your space, I get that. I'm not here to stay. I just…. I need to say something. Then I'll be gone."

They stared at each other for a moment, deadlocked. Her wavering as though she might shut the door on his face, and he knowing he could forcibly keep her from doing it if he so chose. Knowing there was no force on earth that could keep him from protecting his brother right then.

"I deserve that much, at least." He said instead, quietly.

It hit home. Brawn wasn't the only weapon in his armoury.

When she finally stepped aside, for a moment he almost didn't cross the threshold, as if it would somehow lead to another betrayal. But for a second time, his feet were moving before he asked them to, as though his autopilot had taken control again.

She moved to sit on the bed, and he left a puddle of rainwater pooling on the floor around his feet before she offered him the only chair in the room. It creaked as he sat down.

He stared at his hands, trying to think of where to start and she stared at the floor, like a teenager expecting a reprimand.

"I won't stay long." He said. "And I want you to know I won't try to find you again."

"Sam–"

"No, I… I get it. You need some time. Or space. Or whatever. And I mean I _do_ get it. All of it, all of _this_, it's a big change, I get that. But…" And he finally looked at her, only to find she was looking right back at him. "I need you to know how much you've hurt Dean."

He didn't know what she saw reflected in his eyes when he said that, perhaps just a fraction of the pain he'd felt for his brother. But whatever it was, it was too much because she looked away, flinching, as if he'd physically struck her.

If he had, he supposed it would have hurt less.

Good.

"You don't know us Mom. You don't know Dean. And you're right, the person, the _boy_ you knew years ago, the one you miss, in your head or whatever, the one you loved, he's long gone… After you left him the first time, I think you took that child with you…. And I don't blame you for that, not really… even though it's your fault, partly. Yours and Dad's. Hell! Maybe it's even mine… I don't know."

The feelings which that statement, that acknowledgement, evoked in him, they stung him with a sudden sharpness he hadn't been prepared for. The memory of what demon-Dean had said to him once (_my mother would still be alive if it wasn't for you… your very existence sucked the life out of my life_) still echoed in his thoughts every so often, and resurfaced again now with a bitterness borne of their possible truth and he had to grit his teeth. Had to take a breath. Had to look away.

It gave her time she didn't yet deserve.

"I never meant to hurt him. To hurt _either_ of you. Sam I–"

"No, Mom. No… No, you've said your piece and I… I'm not here to make you feel bad or…" He took another deep breath. Had to give himself a moment to let his heart reset before he could trust it to not buckle on him mid-sentence again. "When you died, Dean stepped up, like Dad never did. Dean ended up taking care of me and Dad, but we… neither of us ever really took care of him. Not the way we should have. And I know you have these great memories of Dad, and I'm happy that you do, really I am. But… I don't know that version of him at all. And Dean barely remembers either. The version we knew, that I grew up with, he…." But he shook his head at himself, stopping himself. "It doesn't matter. That's not why I'm here. Mom when you died, I don't think you really have any idea what it was like for Dean. I mean, how could you? I guess I don't either, I was too young to know any different. But Dean wasn't. He was old enough to remember you. And he always kept that memory of you, that memory of what it was like to have you in his life, alive. And he held on to that, so fiercely, he even made me believe it was something sacred. And for him it was. It really was."

Mary was hanging her head, clearly ashamed, and despite himself, Sam couldn't supress the pang of sympathy and pain for her that shot through him.

"I'm sorry." She whispered. "I never meant… If I'd only known what saving your fath–"

But Sam had to stop her. He couldn't deal with another person's anguish on top of Dean's and his own.

"Mom stop. I'm not… I'm not here to make you feel bad… as much as I might want to."

"Then why _are_ you here?" She asked, looking up at him, voice so soft and eyes so pleading they threatened to let him forgive her right then.

"I'm here because of Dean. I'm here to make you understand exactly what it is you've done to him."

She shook her head. "I just need a little time. But I promise I'll fix things."

"Right now? I don't know if you can… Mom, I love you because of Dean. Because of what he taught me about you, because of the way he remembered you, the things he told me. I mean Hell! Dad never spoke about you. And it's not like I had any memories of you. But Dean did. And he always made me believe in them. He believed in them without question. I think it's what got him through most of his childhood. This idealised version of you he was constantly trying to keep alive, or to live up to and make proud."

"And I _am_ proud." Mary said, almost defiantly, but the fire that had given her voice a momentary fierce edge burnt out in the same instant it had been borne. "I _am_." She repeated, more remorsefully this time. "Of both of you. You're both so… I couldn't be more proud of how strong, how–"

But something flared up inside of Sam at hearing her say that, as if she had no right to feel those things. As if she had somehow forsaken her claim to them. It wasn't quite anger, but it made him cut his mother off again before she could continue.

"You don't know him Mom. You don't know either of us. Dean he… Dean has the biggest, the best heart of anyone you will ever know. He's got a better heart than any angel or god or parent I've ever known… or ever _will_ know." He paused to let that sink in. "And with all that, Dean's love for you is more than his love for anything or anyone else in this world. I mean, hell. The only reason you're back is because Amara looked into his heart and after all these years, after all this time, she _still_ saw _you_ there."

"And I appreciate that Sam, I do. But I didn't _ask_ to come back. And now that I'm here it's just…. I'm trying, I am."

"You still don't understand." He shook his head, staring at his hands and grinning humourlessly at the frustration he felt.

"What? What don't I understand?"

"That your coming back, it's like you brought back a part of him that... A part of him that still held on to something from his childhood. Still held on to something good. Held onto something he believed in."

"Surely that's a good thing?!"

"It could have been. But you _hurt_ him Mom. Do you get that? You hurt that part of him, that _child_ that had been immune from all of this..." He raised his arms as if to encompass the world. "This crap that has been our whole lives. It's like you took the last bit of him that still believed in something pure. That memory he had of you, that _hope_, and it's like you just smashed it to pieces. And I'm not trying to make you feel bad, I'm not. But it's just…"

"Well I do feel bad. If I could undo what happened all those years ago–"

"It's not even about that anymore!" Sam shouted, suddenly unable to keep his emotion pent up any longer. He rose to his feet, needing to burn off the surplus energy that was suddenly coursing through him. "I love Dean, Mom. I love him more than I love you or Dad or anyone else. He's more than just my brother. He raised me. He's looked out for me his whole life. He's given up more for me than I'll probably ever know, more than anyone else ever has. There's nothing I can do that will ever come close to what Dean has done for me. And you… You _hurt_ him. You really, really hurt him. He believed in you. You were the one person in his life that was supposed to never let him down, to never leave him. Despite all of it, despite everything, despite how we grew up and despite everything that happened, through all of it Dean never stopped believing in _you_. Never stopped believing that you loved him. And you–"

"Of course I loved him!" She cried out, rising to her feet to join him, cutting him off. "I _still_ love him! I love you _both_! How could you even think…?" But the answer came to her before she finished her own sentence, and it stole her words away. Her legs seemed to buckle beneath her and she sat back down on the bed. "Sam." She pleaded, unable to hear any more, tears freely flowing. "Sam, please. You have to understand, I would never, _never_, choose to hurt either of you. And I am _so_ sorry. I just need a little time. I just…. But I _will_ come back. I will."

Sam looked down at her, watching as she swiped tears away. Tears that already seemed to dry up as she regained her composure. It made him realise something about her, even as he believed what she was saying, and he sat back down on the chair.

"Don't." He said, quietly, calmly.

She stared at him, startled, not sure she'd heard him properly. "What?"

"Don't." He said again, meeting her gaze. "Don't come back."

She shook her head, confused. Shocked.

Hurt.

"Sam –"

"Dean is the only person who's always, _always_, been there for me. Everyone in his life has let him down at one time or another. Me included. The only person who Dean believed would never, _could_ never, hurt him, the only person he believed would never leave him if they had the choice, was you. And you destroyed that. You destroyed it Mom, just like that, you took that one thing away from him. You have _no idea_ how much you hurt my brother. None. Just like you have no idea how far I'll go to protect him. There's nothing I wouldn't do. Nothing I wouldn't sacrifice…"

"Why are you telling me this Sam? What are you saying?"

"I'm saying I've never known you Mom. Apart from what Dean has told me, apart from his love for you, I've never known you. And now, here you are, but… But if this is how much you can hurt Dean, I'll risk never getting to know you… Hell maybe I don't ever want to know you if this is what you can do to him. It's not like I can lose something I never had. But for Dean…" He shook his head, knowing Dean would take Mary back in a heartbeat, and risk his heart all over again in doing so. "It's up to me to look out for him when he can't, or won't look out for himself. I owe him that. I won't let Dean get hurt again. I won't. So… You go take your time Mom. Go find yourself or your place or whatever it is you need to find…. But don't ever come back."

"Sam…"

"Not unless you're sure. Not unless you're one hundred per cent sure that you won't leave him again, no matter what."

Mary exhaled, some sense of comprehension and relief settling on her shoulders. "I swear Sam, that's what I'm trying to do. I want to be there for him, for you both. I just need to make sure I can be."

"I get that. And you know, I even get why you made that deal to save Dad and why Dad spent his entire life avenging you. And whatever happened, whatever consequences, they don't even matter anymore now. Not really. Except that you have a chance to fix some of what you caused."

"I will." She promised. "Trust me Sam. I will."

"Maybe." Sam said, standing again, and she copied, following him as he headed for the door. "Like I said Mom," He continued, talking over his shoulder as he walked. "Dean has a big heart, I know he'll probably forgive you this time. But if you ever hurt him like this again, believe me..." He turned as he stepped out into the rain, the coldness of the dying night seeming to converge in his features as he looked down at her. "I won't."

It wasn't the rain, or the winter air, or the freezing wind that made Mary shudder right then, standing in the doorway, looking up at her youngest son. It was the coolness in his eyes as he said those words, a coldness that seemed to reach all the way inside of her and wrap its promise of hatred around her heart that made her shudder and take a step back from him.

The look was gone, in barely an instant, but she could still feel it in the thumping of her heartbeat, long after he'd walked away from her.

-oOo-

Sam had made a pit stop for breakfast and beer on his way back to the bunker, but even then, he returned before Dean had roused. He checked on him before heading to his own room, collapsing on the bed with an unforeseen weariness that seemed to hit him all at once.

He slept through most of the day and it was almost evening when he woke. The instant he did he felt a twang of guilt for the way he'd behaved; half of him feeling ashamed for having spoken to his mother like that, the other feeling as though he'd somehow betrayed Dean simply by seeing her behind his back.

As he made his way to the kitchen, both those feelings continued to writhe and squirm in his gut. Dean was awake by then, had made it to the kitchen but by the looks of it, only just. He barely acknowledged Sam with a grunt, then a wince, screwing his eyes shut and gingerly pinching the bridge of his nose. Sam poured them both a coffee.

They drank it in silence, Sam getting up to refill them both and silently placing a bottle of water next to Dean's mug.

On any other day, Dean would have snapped at him, or perhaps thrown the plastic bottle back at him. But that day, he simply stared at it, for the longest time, before finally twisting off the cap and downing it in one. They sat in silence a while longer, almost as if they were still shell-shocked, before Dean eventually made a move to leave. Sam wanted to say something, anything, but he found no words to sum up any of what he felt.

It seemed Dean was going to leave soundlessly as he walked past him, but he paused at Sam's side, and Sam turned to face him. Dean didn't meet his gaze though, just stood there for a while, before placing a hand on Sam's shoulder.

"I wish… I wish it could have been better, you know? For you."

"Dean… I'm okay. Really."

"Yeah well…" He squeezed his shoulder before slapping it lightly and letting his hand fall away. Sam felt as though a piece of his heart, or his soul, _something_ deep inside him, had gotten snagged and pulled away with the loss of that touch.

"We're gonna be okay Dean." He tried to reassure him.

"Yeah." Dean agreed, but there was a hollowness in his voice that seemed to resonate and amplify the emptiness of the bunker. The emptiness Sam had been feeling inside.

"Hey!" He said, grabbing Dean's arm and pulling him back a step before he could leave. "We're gonna be okay." He repeated. "We are."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Dean sighed heavily, scrubbing a hand over his face, then rubbing his eyes. His shoulders sagged. "Maybe." He conceded, but it just didn't catch.

"_Definitely_. Look… Look you remember that time Dad left us?"

Dean quirked his head towards the younger Winchester then, his face betraying some of his confusion, some of his patented older brother annoyance.

"_Which_ time?" He retorted, scoffing at the understatement.

"_Exactly_." Sam rounded. "Dad left us, _all_ _the time_. And we turned out okay. I mean, okay maybe we… well, _I_ screwed up a fair bit. But we're okay, aren't we? We got through it, didn't we?"

Dean sighed, tired and weary. "This is different Sam. This is… It's just different."

"I know." Sam said quickly. "Coz its Mom." Dean flinched at her mention and Sam tightened his grip on his brother's arm, squeezing hard as if to somehow pull him back from some unforeseen ledge. "But it's also still _us_ Dean. You and me. What's happening, it sucks and it's crappy and we don't deserve it. I get all that but…. We'll get through it. You and me. Together, like we always do…. _Right_?"

Up until that point, Sam hadn't let any doubt or hesitation enter his voice, his convictions holding strong. But he couldn't help a note of desperation from creeping into his voice then, because if he didn't have Dean, then he wouldn't have anyone. It left the affirmation at the end of his speech, which he'd meant to have been reassuring, sound desperate and wanting, even to his own ears.

Dean must have heard the same thing, the same plea in his younger brother's voice, because it felt to Sam that it was the first time since their mother had left that Dean actually looked at him properly. That he was actually seeing him, or anything at all in fact, again.

And it must have jump-started that inbuilt reflex in Dean that kicked in whenever Sam was hurting. He seemed to wake up from something and he took step back, not to distance himself, but to steady his stance. He blinked, his eyes focusing as his shoulders straightened, just a fraction, but enough to make him seem taller again, square and steady. Sitting on the stool, looking up at him, Sam couldn't explain how familiar it felt to be seeing Dean like that. It had been decades since he'd last been the shorter one, looking up at his older brother for reassurance and seeing it right there, where he always expected it to be. It evoked a sensation that enveloped him like being caught in a safety net.

"Yeah." Dean repeated, this time without any hollowness at all, and the solidity which Sam had relied on his entire life returned again, seeming to fill the whole space as if reaffirming the world around him. "I mean, it hurts like a sonofabitch and… hell! I don't even know what I feel right now. But… But you're right Sammy. We'll get through it. We'll be okay. Same as always."

Sam sighed, releasing a pent up breath he hadn't even known he'd been holding. The anxiety, the weight, the breathless tightness in his chest that had been knotted and heavy since Mary's departure, it seemed to unfurl and dissipate, replaced by a calmness that he believed in. It was going to be okay. It was. If Dean believed it, if Dean said it, then that was all that mattered. That was all he needed.

"You know." Dean drawled, tired, exasperated, a hint of irritation in his voice, a hint more of fondness, all breaking Sam out from his reverie. "You keep holdin' on to me like that, I'm gonna have to drag you with me to the john… or I can make a puddle right here on the floor. Coz I mean either way, I don't–"

"Dude!" Sam said letting go of him, lip curling up in both disgust and amusement.

"I'm jus' saying Sammy." Dean said as he walked away. "Only fair to give you a heads up in case I shock your ladylike sensibilities."

"Such a jerk." Sam muttered under his breath, embarrassed for no reason. Annoyed in a way that was oddly reassuring.

It was a few seconds later before a reply, one that had no business existing because there was no reasonable way that Dean could have heard him, filtered back to Sam.

"I heard that…."

Sam waited.

"…Bitch."

The ghost of a smile that was on Sam's lips reaffirmed everything he needed to know.

With or without Mary, it really didn't matter. They would be all right because they were all right.

* * *

_The End._

_Thank you for reading._

**A/N: **The next chapter is **unrelated** to this story, is set in _season 12, episode 14 _(_The Raid_) and doesn't need to be read (especially if you haven't seen the episode yet). It's _an experimental piece, _like a hidden track, which I hid because I don't think it's that good...


	2. The Fallen Few

**UNRELATED TO PREVIOUS CHAPTER**: What one of them felt/thought during _that_ exchange in the episode 'The Raid' (season 12, ep. 14) - Oneshot.

**_SPOILERS:_**_ set in season 12, episode 14 (The Raid)._ **SPOILER**: _The conversation referenced is the one in which Dean tells Mary he was never a child._

**_A/N:_**_ Wrote this 'experiment' almost immediately after the episode, but my wise & trusted Beta HATED it. Hated it then (never managed to finish reading it), and still hates it now. You have been warned, I take no offence if you want to let me know that you also hate it; venting is good for the soul etc. (though maybe not necessarily for mine ;-) )_

**_Disclaimer_****_: _**_All characters appearing in Supernatural are copyright Kripke/CW/WB etc. No infringement of these copyrights is intended. This is my original work of fiction based on those characters/that universe. _

* * *

**The Fallen Few**

She was falling.

She was falling, and she didn't seem to know.

She was falling, and he wondered if she even cared.

She was falling, and he realised that he didn't.

Care.

Not about her emotional well-being, not about her state of mind, not about her eventual hurt when the fall would come to its inevitable end. Not right then. Right then? Those concerns for her? They weren't even on his radar.

She was falling, and he wondered why she'd done it.

She was falling and he wondered what could have possessed her to want such a thing.

She was falling, and he wondered how.

How she could have taken that step, seemingly so easily, seeming so oblivious. How she could have gone, seemingly of her own free will, over that awful edge.

He'd fallen, in his time and more than once.

He'd fallen, far and hard.

And it hurt, that fall, as all falls did. But these falls were worse than death. These falls didn't kill you. They didn't cripple you completely. Didn't even hurt you in a way that left marks or scars you could see and touch. Didn't leave signs of things that could heal over and disappear.

Oh but they hurt.

And oh but the wounds bled deep and dark and ugly into the night, till you found yourself wishing for death. Till you knew you deserved no such deliverance.

Till your skin crawled but sill, you could never crawl away from yourself.

She was falling.

She was falling, and he could see that.

She was falling and she would see it too, would know it too.

Would feel it soon, with the sickening snap of comprehension that would come at the falls end, that would set a rot in her heart even as it beat in her chest.

That would rip open her eyes to the awfulness of what she had done.

To herself.

_"I never was_."

And he hated her.

Just for a second, a flash of hate bright and fierce and so possessive, blazed through him at the hurt and truth in those words, and he hated her. He never would have thought he could feel such a thing about her.

But he always knew he could feel such things for him. Such fierce, violent, terrifying things, all on behalf of him.

It passed, of course, as suddenly as it had erupted, but it left a dull ache. A throbbing bitterness inside him, that pulsed and pulsed and pulsed, till he understood it was just the beating of his heart, spreading that pain and deadened anger through him like a toxin. Bitter and vile and poisoning his love.

_I never was_.

And it pulsed.

And pulsed.

And pulsed.

As if his heart were reverberating with those words, were aching for that loss as his brothers admittance echoed within him.

No wonder he'd hated her, for the briefest second, no wonder he'd felt that anger, that pain. Nothing burnt as fierce as love.

Nothing hurt as deep as love.

There was no one he loved more.

_I never was_.

And in those words, he'd heard it.

Mary had fallen.

He wondered if she knew.

Mary had fallen.

He wondered if she would survive.

Mary had fallen.

But he didn't wonder how she would feel.

Because he knew.

He'd fallen too, once. More than once.

He still remembered. He still carried that pain.

He'd rather go to hell than take that fall again. He'd rather sell his soul than to ever, _ever_, fall again.

Because nothing, _no-thing_, hurt more than that look in Dean's eyes when you fell in his estimation. Nothing hurt more than falling from the grace his love had once bestowed on you.

Nothing ached inside like the knowledge of that fall, knowledge of where it left you. Nothing hurt like the distance that fall put between you and the place you'd once had in Dean's heart. A place that left nothing but darkness all around the instant you were evicted.

He'd clawed his way back, but he would never be back, because that pain could never ever be erased. Not completely, not from within himself. Not from his memory. His conscience. Because it had happened, it had occurred. He'd _let_ it happen, let it occur, had taken that step away from Dean and the fall had been inevitable.

And though he was back, was delivered and had been accepted back into some place from which he would never risk falling again, it had still happened and he lived with it. The knowledge of it, the knowledge of what he had done, it would never leave, no matter how much redemption he sought and hoarded, no matter how much absolution was granted. The knowledge was immutable, permanent, fused within his marrow and soul.

Like a severed limb, or a shattered heart, you carried the absence, the break, the fallout and shame, inside you forever.

Because he had fallen.

But he _had_ found his way back. Had crawled, clawed, earned, craved, been pulled and carried and he was oh so grateful to be one of the few. The very lucky few.

And now Mary had fallen.

Poor Mary.

Poor, poor Mary.

Now one of the fallen.

He hoped, for her sake, she would be one of the fallen few.

* * *

_The End._

_Thank you for reading._


End file.
